Red Shirt
by Dayspring
Summary: "I'm a total Red Shirt, Sam. Ain't no way I'm walking away from this episode." Sam's POV. Missing scenes from episode 316: No Rest For The Wicked. Sequel to Prime Directive.


Spoilers: Missing scenes from 316:_ No Rest For The Wicked_. Sequel Prime Directive.

Notes: Thanks, K, for being my beta. This is the second in a trilogy I'm calling TripleTrek. Has little to do with Star Trek, except for the Winchesters' appreciation of the Trek Universe.

* * *

Sam gave a bitter smile as "Wanted Dead Or Alive" faded in the car. He'd belted out his "little brother" part like he'd been taught years ago, but his heart wasn't in it. Dean was scheduled to die and no amount of reminiscing or creating new memories was going to distract him from that fact. His brother had sold his soul to save him and now the bill was due.

And there wasn't a goddamn thing anyone could do about it. Except kill Lilith.

Maybe Ruby...Nah, Dean was right. Ruby was a demon and the Winchester family had already dealt with demons way too much.

"Did anyone ever violate the prime directive?"

Sam's eyes cut over curiously to his brother. Dean was staring straight ahead, his eyes focused on the road as if there was bad weather and the Impala was depending on his guiding hand. "What?" There was reminiscing and then there was randomness. Was the baying of the hellhounds sending Dean over the edge?

"I know you got your geek on watching all those Trek shows. Ooh, man those thrusters, Scotty," Dean said with fake breathlessness. "Stun me, Captain, stun me."

"Keep your fantasies to yourself, dude. I know way too much about you and Deanna Troi."

Dean grinned. "I'm not ashamed of my love for Troi. Chick with a bangin' body like that...not ashamed at all. So, back to my question. Did any of the crews ever violate the prime directive?"

Sam tried to focus on the odd question, but his mind refused to consider such trivialness when Dean. Was. About. To. Die. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. I'm a total Red Shirt, Sam. Ain't no way I'm walking away from this episode."

"Don't." Sam was tired of this giving up shit thing his brother had going on. "We still have ti—"

"Whatever, you stubborn ass."

"So why are you asking about the prime directive?"

"I just...That summer we stayed at Bobby's? Dad sorta gave me a prime directive."

Sam frowned. They'd spent a lot of summers with Bob—oh. THAT summer. When Dad hadn't come back until it was time for school to start. The summer of Dean's broken wrist and panicked nightmares, and Bobby letting them get away with not doing Dad's list of physical and weapons training. Dean had scared Sam that summer. Normally Dean was all bluster and noise. A person always knew where Dean was when he was in a room, a house, hell, just in the vicinity. That summer he'd been quiet and intense, very introspective. Very un-Dean. Had Dad's "prime directive" caused the unusual behavior? "What was it?"

"'You have one obligation to me and your brother—to come home to us, no matter what you have to do, no matter who you have to hurt, no matter what or I_who/I _you have to kill. You come home to us.'"

Sam could tell Dean had quoted it verbatim. Dad had said it fifteen years ago and Dean remembered it word for word. "What does it mean?"

Dean glanced sharply at him. "You know what happened that summer."

Sam blushed. "No, I don't."

Dean's eyes cut to the rearview mirror where Bobby's Chevelle tailed them. "Didn't Bobby or Dad—"

Sam shook his head. Wasn't their fault, though. He'd never asked. "Bobby told me not to ask you what happened. After I saw you, saw the condition you were in, I guess ten-year-old me didn't want to know."

"Oh."

But he wasn't still ten. "I want to know now if you want me to know."

Dean shrugged and focused on the road again. "You remember Dad sent me away to train?"

"Yeah."

"The hunter...wasn't a good guy."

From the light filtering in from the Chevelle behind them, Sam could see Dean's shoulders were hunching their way up to his ears. That meant he was nervous. His jaw was clenching. That meant he was agitated. Sam debated taking back his confident "I want to know now" and replace it with a "No, no, I can't hear you," complete with hands covering his ears. Instead, he merely repeated, "Not a good guy?"

Even in the crappy lighting, Dean's knuckles whitened noticeably around the steering wheel. "He—liked—young boys."

Sam inspected his fingernails to keep his jaw from dropping and scaring Dean into silence. He had to keep it casual. But this was anything but. "You?"

"Yeah."

"Did he—?"

"He tried."

Sam's fingernails curled into his palms. "That's why you called Dad." Dean nodded. "And he told you something like he didn't want to hear it?" He had a vague memory of being pissed at Dad because he hadn't let him talk to Dean.

"Something like that."

"Which is why you called Bobby?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, but not until after."

Dean had been—propositioned, groped, masturbated over? No, the bruises and the broken wrist was evidence of some greater crime. "After what?" He couldn't keep the dread from his voice.

"After I killed the fucker—or maybe I should say almost-fucker," Dean added with a weak grin.

Rape. Shit. This wasn't what— Even without asking, he'd known something bad/traumatic/deep had happened to Dean, something more than a ghost or a wraith or even a werewolf. Something had attacked Dean directly and it had scared everybody, including Dad and Bobby. When he was ten that had been a damn scary occurrence, so he'd let it go. He'd just spent the summer trying to make Dean be himself again.

But it had been a man who'd changed Dean. A man who'd tried—and, oh, God, he hoped Dean was being truthful with him—to rape his brother, a man who had forced a kid to kill him. "You were fourteen."

"I'd been hunting for a while, Sam."

Sam felt a burning in his chest. Bile in his esophagus, maybe? Anger at his father? His heart breaking for Dean? "But this wasn't a hunt, was it?"

"No."

"And this man was completely...human?"

"Yeah. But it wasn't like it was something I wanted to do," Dean added defensively.

"What?" His brother couldn't be— "Are you apologizing or trying to make excuses for what"

"No, no excuses. I own what I did, all right? I just—"

"Stop the car."

"Sam—"

"Stop the car." Dean pulled over. "Get out."

Dean obeyed and Sam joined him, watching as Dean signaled to Bobby that he didn't need to get out. Good because this was between him and Dean.

Sam's fist was flying before he realized he'd moved. He hit Dean's mouth right where Ruby had bruised it earlier. Eating wasn't gonna be pain-free for a while. Good. "You stupid sonuvabitch," he yelled. His hands clamped onto Dean's shoulders and held the man directly in front of him. "If I ever hear you attempt an apology for killing that fucking bastard, you won't have to worry about hellhounds because I'll kill you myself. You hear me, Dean?" He pulled Dean closer and wrapped his arms around him. "God, you're stupid. You know that? Stupid, stupid, stupid."

"I think I get it, Sammy."

"You better, you moron." He half shoved him toward the Impala. "Stupidest jerk on the planet."

"You hit like a girl, bitch."

"Like a girl didn't kick your ass just a few hours ago."

"Demon bitches don't count."

Just as Sam was about to reply, movement caught his attention. Bobby was getting out of his car. "Just going to see a man about a horse, boys. I'll catch up to you."

They nodded and got into the Impala. Sam grinned as they slammed the doors in sync.

Back on the road, Sam marveled at all the trauma Dean had survived without going batshit crazy. Not that the man was without issues. No lasting relationships outside his family. All that over-sharing about his sexual conquests. The way he hid every genuine emotion under pile after pile of bullshit. His need for everything to be completely black and white—no shades of gray, no doubts to torture him. Like he'd tortured himself that summer over...

He didn't know whether to be mad at John Winchester or bless him for his negligence. Sure, he should've stayed, been there for Dean, but, damn, the man lacked the comfort gene. Leaving Dean in a safe, calm environment with people he trusted had probably been for the best. Dean had been smiling and joking by the end of the summer. Even if time had blurred the specifics of those months, Sam remembered that much.

He turned to ask Dean if he needed ice for his mouth and that was when he saw the rapidly approaching police car behind them. Well, that was definitely adding icing to today's drama cake.

Sam threw the shovel into the trunk and slammed it shut, wincing as if he could hear Dean's voice yelling at him about respecting his baby.

If only Dean could yell at him.

"Why here, Sam?" Bobby stood looking at the grave they'd just filled. Sam was just glad the man wasn't going on again about giving Dean a hunter's funeral. No burning. Dean needed a body to come back to. "Something special about Pontiac, Illinois?"

Sam shrugged. "It'll give Dean something to bitch about when he gets back. He hates Pontiacs, y'know. They and Impalas were quite the rivals back in the day. He'll probably pout and ask, 'What, Sammy, couldn't just pile me in with Henry Ford's bones? Wouldn't that have been a bigger insult?'"

"Sam..."

Sam leaned back against the trunk, blinking as a ray of the rapidly sinking sun bore into his eye, weighing him, judging him, pointing out to him just how opposite of light he was. On the other hand, light had loved Dean. Once, when they were really broke, Dean had posed for a photographer. Nothing sleazy—all of them taken in a busy park with armed little brother in attendance. The photographer had been amazed at the way the light played across Dean, highlighting him instead of ruining the shot. Dean, of course, had just pocketed the cash and made some snide comment about needing to go binge, without the purge.

Good ol' Dean, unconditionally loved by the light, his car, and— "Thanks, Bobby." The elder hunter frowned. "Not for this. I mean, not _just_ for this. But for having Dean be your favorite."

"Son, you're both—"

"Seriously, Bobby, I'm good with it. I didn't need you; I always had Dean. Dean didn't have... I will concede that Dad did the best that he could, the best he was capable of, but that left a lot of open territory, didn't it?"

"John was a complicated man."

Sam snorted. "Even when things should've been simple. Like listening to your son on the phone, like having his back when he needed you to. When Dean called you that summer, you never hesitated one second, did you?" He saw Bobby didn't need any explanation. Apparently _that summer_ was ingrained in everyone's mind.

"It was obvious something had happened from the minute he opened his mouth."

"And even if he hadn't sounded like that, you wouldn't have hung up. You would've listened to him, maybe called him an idjit, then told him to call again if he got lonely."

"Sam."

"I know that's what you would've done, because you've done it time and time again. I've heard Dean call you for the most idiotic reasons and you always listened. Just like Dean listens to me when I... He's comin' back, Bobby. I'm getting' him back. I mean it."

"He doesn't want—"

"If he didn't want me doing it, he should've the fuck lived and stopped me." Sam gripped the car keys in his hand. "Now, I'm doing it my way."

"Sam."

"I'll see you back at your place in a couple days."

"Sam."

Sam took out his phone and waved it in the air after he opened the car door. "Don't worry; I got you on speed dial." He had someone else on speed dial, too. He had no doubt that she'd make it back from wherever Lilith had sent her. Demons like Ruby always landed on their feet. However, the bitch better not be playing him. He was so not in the mood.

He cranked the car and turned on the radio, then grinned at the tape deck. An I-Pod would really tick Dean off. Yeah, next stop Walmart. Well, maybe not the next stop because he had something else he had to do first. Something he'd told himself he was going to do just as they'd crossed into fucking New Harmony. He eyed the back seat where his and Dean's duffels sat. He'd gone through Dean's, finding him something he wouldn't be too ashamed to be "caught dead in" when he returned (Dean might call him a girl, but Dean was way more vain). But Sam had to go through both bags again. Then build a bonfire. Anything with a trace, hint, or just a seam of red was going on the pile.

No fucking red shirts ever again in the Winchester future.


End file.
